


Tradition

by lorata



Series: We Must Be Killers: Tales from District 2 [26]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Bonding, Careers (Hunger Games), District 2, Gen, Mentors, Original Character(s), POV Original Character, Victors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:15:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2697578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorata/pseuds/lorata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claudius is new to the District 2 Victors' Village, but luckily the other Victors are there to help him out. But Victors are Victors after all, and after a while Claudius starts to wonder how much of their 'advice' is real ...</p><p>In which the Village's resident pranksters haze their newest Victor, but it's all in fun. Slice of life, family dynamics, and finding your place among friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tradition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xanify](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xanify/gifts).



> Happy birthday, my friend! :D Xanify requested "Claudius and Misha being cute, and possibly Devon, and nobody being sad". I threw in Emory as a bonus because I love her. She's like a not-so-tsundere Cassandra Pentaghast.
> 
> There are a lot of OCs in here, so if that's not your thing, just beware, but if you like my D2 stuff you might have fun. :)

It’s April, the first sprays of violets have exploded across the grass, the buds on the trees have started to burst, and Claudius lies on his back in his treehouse, staring up at the sky. The branches creak under his weight, but Brutus helped him shore up the supports so he shouldn’t fall to the ground and break his collarbone, probably.

It’s springtime and the Village will be gearing up for the next Games, a concept that Claudius is still trying to wrap his head around. He’d always promised himself he would win, all the way back when he was a kid who didn’t really understand what that meant, but somehow Claudius hadn’t really thought much further than that. He’d pictured himself, and Lyme, and the house, but time had always existed in a strange kind of vacuum. It had just been him and Lyme forever, and they lived and the years passed but everything seemed to stop around them.

In a few months there will be a new Hunger Games and the whole cycle will repeat. The Games have been the centre of Claudius’ world since he was old enough to understand what they were for, and it might be stupid but he’d always thought of it as continuing that way, but no. In August there will be a new Victor; a year after that, another, and each one of them have a lifetime before them and a new one coming, with him no more than a preceding footnote. A recitation in the list of previous Victors, nothing more.

Claudius isn’t much for philosophy, though, not really, and as he watches the clouds drift across the sky his stomach protests in a loud growl. He sits up, swings his legs over the edge of the wooden platform, and starts when he looks down and sees Lyme’s first Victor standing under the tree and looking up at him. “Uh,” Claudius says, and he tightens his fingers on the wood and checks her hands for weapons but she looks clean, at least. “Hi.”

Artemisia hooks her thumbs in her belt loops and tips her head back to stare at him, a crooked grin playing across her face. “Hey,” she says, easily enough, and Claudius spoke with her a little at his Victory party in January but not enough for it to be memorable. She’s a little intimidating, not that Claudius would ever tell anyone, but. She’s Lyme’s first, and just because she had her mentor to herself for a whole decade doesn’t mean she wants to share Lyme now.

“Hi,” Claudius says again, like an idiot, but he’s up a tree and she’s on the ground and he knows — he _knows_ — that the sky above him is sky, not the Gamemakers’ grid, and that this is the Village not the Arena but a slow slide of panic starts up in his chest anyway. He can’t get down, not with her there like that.

Artemisia’s gaze flickers, and without a word she takes three deliberate steps back, giving him space and putting herself out of range even if she had a long knife hidden on her somewhere. Claudius, stuck between wanting to thank her and wishing he weren’t so obvious, settles for saying nothing and scrambling down front-first. He’s spent enough time with Brutus and Nero that he could turn his back on them without much worry, but he doesn’t know her yet, not well enough for that.

She doesn’t say anything or make fun, even though it takes twice as long for Claudius to climb down this way and he ends up jumping the last five feet just for the sake of time. She just rocks back on her heels and makes no sudden movement. “How are you settling in?”

“Pretty good,” Claudius says, still wary.

“I brought you some food when you were first out, but I don’t think you remember,” she says. “You were pretty out of it, like most of us are. But it’s been a while now, and Lyme says you’re doing better, so I asked if it would be okay if I paid my little brother a visit.”

The casual use of the term knocks Claudius back a bit, and he runs a hand through his hair. “Brother, huh?”

“Sure,” Artemisia says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “We’re the third pair of Victor-siblings in the Village this decade. I guess it’s in fashion right now.”

“Really?” The Centre didn’t really cover mentors all that much, since tributes weren’t allowed to choose and too much fixation (as the trainers never tired of warning Claudius) could be a negative. “Who are the others?”

“Brutus had both Emory and Devon,” Artemisia says, counting on her fingers. “And then Nero had both Lyme and Enobaria. Everyone who won in the Sixties here, their mentor pulled one last decade, too.”

The commentators must love that; the mentors who haven’t managed to pull their first, like Callista, probably not so much. Still, that’s not the piece of information that catches Claudius’ attention the most. “Lyme and Enobaria, really? I thought mentors usually have a type, and they seem so —“ He stops, not having any idea how he’s supposed to finish that sentence without causing mass offence.

“Lyme and Enobaria don’t really get on,” Artemisia says dryly, using the sort of tone that gives Claudius the impression that this wins understatement of the year. “It’s too bad, because Emory and Devon like each other just fine, but sometimes it happens. You and me, though.” She tilts her head to one side, studying him, and Claudius fidgets and fights the urge to straighten his clothes and comb his hair under her scrutiny. “I think we’ll be okay.”

“Do you want to come in?” Claudius asks, just because it’s awkward standing out on the lawn. Sitting likely won’t make everything magically better, but at least if he’s inside he can tell her to get out if it all goes wrong.

“Sure,” Artemisia says, and she walks alongside him — not behind, and Claudius has finally started to be with it enough to notice these things instead of taking them for granted, and how many other tiny modifications do the Victors do for each other on a daily basis — into the house.

He takes her into the kitchen, just because the bedroom is his space and the living room screams Lyme, with the oversized armchair meant specifically for her and the blankets still in a pile on the couch from the last time he’d curled up on her. Claudius pours Artemisia a glass of apple cider and hopes that’s a good enough play at being host before they both sit down at the table.

Claudius gives Artemisia a quick once-over as she sips at her juice. They don’t look like siblings, but they do have a similar body type, long and lanky and strong instead of solid and muscled. Artemisia isn’t model-gorgeous either, not like Callista or even Adessa, but somehow looking at her for a few minutes makes him forget. She has a laid-back charm that Claudius has no idea how to replicate; they hadn’t bothered with that in any of his image training.

“I like you, by the way,” Artemisia says, swilling the cider like it’s an expensive vintage of brandy, and she gives him a sharp smile that Claudius has no idea how to read or if he can trust. “It was obviously Lyme’s strategy you were using, but you didn’t argue with her, that was smart. And you’re obviously completely nuts about her, which is another good sign.”

Claudius shifted in his chair. “Weren’t you?”

“Not at first,” Artemisia says with an idle flicking gesture. “It took me a while to realize how good I had it; I’d managed to convince myself I won my Games all on my own. But you, you’re smarter than that. You know you need her.”

“I do,” Claudius says, though of course that doesn’t even start to cover it. But he’s not going to explain to Artemisia about watching Lyme’s Games as a child and being unable to look away, or writing every single school essay about heroes and role models about her, or drawing pictures of the two of them in the Village when he was ten. He’s come to realize that most Victors didn’t fixate on their mentors beforehand, not like him.

Artemisia smiles. “I can tell. But look, she’s my mentor and now she’s yours, too, and there are two ways this can go down. Emory and Devon, they’re both happy to share Brutus. Sometimes they take turns hanging out with him, sometimes it’s all three, but all in all, nobody’s jealous, nobody’s possessive, everybody’s happy.” Her eyes don’t narrow, but the skin around them tightens and Claudius feels a prickle of warning. “And then there’s Lyme and Enobaria. Enobaria decided that Nero should only have time for one Victor, and since she’s the most recent one, that should be her. I know which one I’d like, don’t you?”

Claudius swallows, wishing stupidly that he had a weapon, not to use but just so he didn’t feel so hopelessly outclassed. “I don’t want to fight you,” he says, his heart rate speeding up. “I don’t — I don’t know what you think I want, but. You’re her Victor, I’m not trying to take that away.”

“Aw, shit,” Artemisia says, and she pushes back her chair, holding out her hands. “Hey, kid, no, I’m sorry. I was just trying to — I don’t know, I’ve never had to deal with this before, I don’t know how it goes, but I like you. I’m not actually trying to terrify you or anything. I’ve just never had to share.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, but Artemisia shakes her head.

“No, don’t, you won and that’s amazing, and you should see Lyme talk about you when you’re not around. It’s adorable.” She grins, small and lopsided, and Claudius flushes without thinking. “I like you, I do, and I’d like to get along. I didn’t mean it to sound like a threat.”

Claudius nods, slowly unclenching his fingers. “I saw your Games, back in the day,” he says, because — well, what else can he say? “It was my first year at the Centre, and they told us you were special. Nobody expected you to win but you did, and I was glad.”

“Yeah?” Artemisia says, leaning back in her chair and cocking her head, and she must get a thousand people fawning over her Games all the time, why did he think this was a good idea? “What did you think?”

“I wanted you to win,” Claudius says, and it’s not a lie, not something he made up to get on her good side. He hopes she can tell. “I did. I might’ve been more like your district partner, the crazy one who liked to torture people, but I wanted it to be you. I wanted Lyme to have a Victor.” He shuffles his foot against the floor. “The trainers said you both were special. Nobody had done what you two did, winning out of the gate like that.”

And nobody has since.

“You neither,” Artemisia says, inclining her head in a nod of acknowledgement. “You had your narrative all but written down for you on cue cards, and you threw it away and won anyhow. One thing I will say for Lyme’s kids, we never play it safe.”

Claudius laughs a little at that. “Yeah, I guess not. So what, you want to be friends?”

“I’d like to, yeah.” She twirls her glass again, and she has sword-callused hands with chipped blue nail polish on the ends of her fingers, and for some reason it looks entirely fitting on her. “I think we’ll be okay if we follow tradition.”

He frowns. “Tradition?”

“There are proper bonding rituals for Victors with the same mentor,” Artemisia says, and that’s the first Claudius has heard of it but he hasn’t exactly been swimming in Village lore, either. “Ronan set them up years and years ago, a way to build trust and keep away jealousy and all that. Emory and Devon went along with it and they turned out fine. Enobaria refused, and, well. Now she and Lyme can barely be in the same room with each other.” She holds up a hand again when Claudius opens his mouth. “I’m not saying it’s foolproof or that it’ll all fall apart if we don’t, but it’s a system that works, and this is Two. Everyone trusts the system.”

Life in the Village is strange already without codifying a rivalry with his fellow Victor, and Claudius nods. “Sure, let’s try it,” he says. “I don’t know the rules, though, you’ll have to tell me.”

Artemisia smiles, slow and predatory like all the other Victors Claudius has met, and it’s reassuring and terrifying at the same time because she’s just like him. Lyme didn’t choose either of them because they were nice. “Don’t worry,” she says, “I will.”

 

* * *

 

 

That evening Lyme comes over with the fixings for sandwiches, and she and Claudius choose their toppings and grill the bread and talk about nothing in particular. “Artemisia came to see me today,” Claudius says, glancing at her to see if she’s surprised, but Lyme only nods.

“She’d been asking if you were ready for company, and I said yes,” Lyme says, digging her knife into the jar of spiced mustard and scooping out an obscenely large amount. Claudius isn’t sure how she still has nostrils if that’s how much she eats. “Did it go okay?”

“I think so.” Claudius stares down at the sweet red pepper in his hand, trying to figure out how to cut it when Lyme only cleared him for plastic knives, and finally he gives up and takes a bite out of it like an apple. The flavour is fresh and bursting, nothing like protein shakes or Arena rations, and even after all these months Claudius is still surprised by it. “She talked about tradition, for how we should get along.”

Lyme raises an eyebrow. “Did she now.”

“She said —“ and maybe he shouldn’t talk about it, maybe it’s painful to mention, but it feels important, somehow. “You and Enobaria —“

“Ah.” Lyme sets down her knife, drums her fingers against the cutting board. “It’s complicated, but I guess the simplest way to put it is that neither of us really like to share. I do, because otherwise I wouldn’t get to see Nero at all. Enobaria still thinks he’s all hers.”

“Artemisia said Enobaria didn’t follow the protocol and that’s part of the reason why you’re not friends.”

Lyme lets out a breath. “It’s more complicated than that, and more complicated than I just made it sound, too, but yes, I guess you could say that’s part of it. It’s not so much ingrained rules as it is understandings, and Enobaria made it clear very early on that she wanted no part in it.”

Claudius shuffles over closer, and Lyme wraps her arms around his shoulder and pulls him in against her side. “I don’t want it to be like that,” he says. “I wouldn’t want your next Victor to hate me and try to take you away all the time. It would be good if we got along.”

“I only pick the best kids, so don’t worry,” Lyme assures him, and Claudius laughs a little and butts his forehead against her arm. “Misha can be a little overwhelming at first, so don’t be afraid to tell her you need some time to yourself, she won’t be offended. But yeah, if you two want to start trying to hang out, I think that’s good.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Artemisia — he can’t call her Misha yet, that feels too close — comes over the next day, bringing with her a plate of misshapen cookies that look terrifying but that she swears taste delicious. “These are from Devon,” she says, setting them on the table in front of the couch and stretching out. “It’s not a prank or anything, there’s no hot sauce hidden in them, I promise.”

Claudius hadn’t even considered that as a possibility; living with other people is going to take some getting used to. Back in the Centre all their food was provided, and no one had any opportunity to tamper with it. “Okay,” he says, not sure what else to do.

“Here, look, I’ll pick — no, wait, you pick a cookie for me and I’ll eat it to show you,” Artemisia says, reassuring, and Claudius does just because he’s curious. She pops it into her mouth in one bite and chews it down, giving him a double thumbs up. “See? Safe, I promise. I mean, I guess I could have laced them with a poison I’ve made myself immune to, or that only I have a secret antidote for, but that really isn’t my style.”

Claudius blinks. “I was just worried they had raisins in them. Are people really that paranoid?”

“No raisins,” Artemisia says, holding out a cookie for him to examine, and sure enough it’s nothing but chocolate and nuts, and Claudius takes a bite. It does taste good, even if it’s alarmingly lumpy. “And yeah, some are, you never know what people bring home with them. I’m just trying to be sensitive.”

“No poison in my Arena.” Claudius shrugs. “But thanks, I guess.”

“Bringing food is tradition,” Artemisia says, snagging another cookie. “The older Victors always bring things for the newbie to eat, it’s a way that we say hi.”

Claudius nods. It makes sense, anyway. “What do the newer Victors do to say thank you?” he asks. “Am I supposed to bring food around to everybody, because I don’t think anyone wants that. I’m still working on not burning everything.”

She laughs, not unkindly, and Claudius relaxes just a little. “Oh, nah, you don’t. It’s a gift, and you’re the baby, that’s just how it works. If you tried to bring something to Emory in exchange she’d frown at you so hard. It’s a little different if you’ve got the same mentor, though.” Claudius tilts his head, and Artemisia eyes him speculatively. “How strong are your hands?”

When Lyme stops by later, Claudius has one of Artemisia’s feet in his lap and is working out the knots with his knuckles. “Hey,” Artemisia calls out, pleasantly, and Lyme raises an eyebrow and kicks off her shoes, nudging them into line with her foot. “Look what I found, boss, isn’t he cute? I’m gonna keep him.”

“Don’t break him, I saw him first,” Lyme says mildly, passing by behind the sofa on the way to the kitchen. She cuffs Artemisia lightly on the back of the head — the other Victor beams up at her as though Lyme just handed her a trophy — and bends to kiss Claudius’ hair.

“I don’t mind,” Claudius says, in case Lyme thinks Artemisia put a knife to his throat or something. It’s good, being helpful, and he would have stabbed the other person in the ankle if someone had tried to make him give foot massages at the Centre, but that was then and this is now. It’s not — entirely — weird giving a shit what other people think of him.

“Watch her arches, she’s ticklish there and will probably kick you in the face,” Lyme says, disappearing around the corner.

“We have the best mentor,” Artemisia affirms, grinning at Claudius, and she raises her voice just enough for Lyme to hear.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lyme calls back, and Claudius catches Artemisia’s eye and returns her grin.

 

* * *

 

Over the next handful of weeks, a creeping suspicion starts in the back of Claudius’ mind that Artemisia is having a go at him. He gives her massages, he braids her hair, he paints her nails, he helps her spring-clean her house, he even goes out back to dig the weeds out of her garden in preparation for fresh planting once the final freeze of the year goes past. Artemisia grins, catches him in headlocks and ruffles his hair, and she’s nice and funny and Claudius actually likes spending time with her, he does, but at the same time he’s not stupid. Showing deference and respect to your senior Victors, okay, but Claudius has a hard time believing that Ronan set up specific provisions where Claudius would be expected to do her laundry.

Every time he questions her she invokes Devon, though, and finally Claudius gives in and heads over to the previous male Victor’s house. Claudius hasn’t had much to do with Brutus’ branch other than the man himself, but he remembers Devon’s Games. He’d slept with half the pack and killed two of them while in the middle of sex, all the while maintaining a sunny smile and friendly disposition on top of it all. It only served to prove to Claudius — a few years shy of his first human kill test — that the people who looked the nicest really shouldn’t be trusted.

Devon would not have washed Emory’s socks, surely.

Claudius rings the doorbell, listening to the soft, melodic chime they’ve all got installed so that the jarring buzz never jolts them into attack mode. It takes a minute but then Devon opens the door, and Claudius blinks at the sight of him, paint-smeared, bare-footed and messy-haired. The Village can be a trip sometimes. “Hey,” Claudius says, wishing not for the first time that the Centre had offered training on how to talk to people in real-life situations without sounding like an idiot. “Can I talk to you for a bit?”

“Yeah, come on in,” Devon says, waving him in. “I was just painting.”

Devon leads Claudius through his house, stone and wood like the rest of the Village but homily done, with large, soft furniture perfect for multiple people to curl up on. Claudius’ own house is small and cozy, not good for entertaining, and Lyme’s, while comfortable, is a bit more reserved, classic lines and tasteful furniture. Devon’s looks as though all it’s missing is another five people to flop together and start play-fighting. This is not what Claudius expected at all.

Neither is the giant blank expanse of wall in the middle of the house, bare except for the mural that Devon is in the process of painting over. “I do this a lot,” he explains when Claudius stares. The previous scene is winter, snowmen and black trees with snow-frosted branches, and the new set of colours he’s laid out in giant buckets on the floor are nothing but spring colours, pinks and greens and blues and yellows. “I figured it was time to change the season. Do you want to help?”

“Uh.” Claudius blinks. “Sure. Should I grab some white or —“

“Oh, no, I’ll keep painting over, you can start on the side that’s already done. Don’t worry about painting something to match, I have people paint with me all the time. It’s not like there’s a theme.”

“Oh.” Claudius picks up a paintbrush, dips it in purple, then smears it across the wall, watching the colours follow his brush. He hasn’t drawn since he was a kid — not since they made fun of him for his pictures of Lyme — but now he’s a Victor and the whole country has to love him, so fuck you, Brand Marsters and Lily Cavers, who’s laughing now? Just for shits, Claudius paints a replica of his favourite childhood subject, stick-figure versions of him and Lyme in front of a house in the VV, both holding swords and grinning.

After a while Devon looks over. “Oh you and Lyme, nice,” he says. “I used to draw all the Victors and me having a big barbecue and being best friends, though I wasn’t sure if I was one of them or they all just came over to my house.” To illustrate, he picks up the black and starts a line of stick-figure of his own.

Well. Score one for Games persona, because Devon the kissing killer — how the Capitol liked to call him — is nowhere in this room. Still, that only helps Claudius, because nobody who smiles like that and hums to himself while painting a giant yellow sun over his stick-people family would be part of any kind of weird teasing conspiracy.

“When you were out, did you do a bunch of chores for Emory and stuff?” Claudius asked, keeping his voice neutral.

“Oh, you mean as a bonding thing? Sure.” Devon steps back to contemplate his work. “You’re doing the same thing for Misha, I bet. It’s nice, isn’t it? I like being able to show her how grateful I am for her support. I’ve been out seven years and I still clean Emory’s kitchen for her every year, just as a sign of respect.”

“Oh,” Claudius says again. “I thought maybe Artemisia was making it up.”

Devon laughs. “I know it sounds like that, but really, it’s a thing. Hierarchy is important to the Village, you know? Nothing matters except for where you are, and knowing where you are is comforting, you know? We’ll always respect the ones above us, and the ones above us will always protect us. We’re safe here, and the system is part of that.”

That lines up with what Artemisia said about the system, and Claudius feels his ears go red. “Hey, don’t tell her I was questioning, okay? I feel bad.”

“Hey, nah, don’t,” Devon says amiably. “Everything’s new, but that’s why we’re here, you know? To help you.”

They paint for a while longer, and Claudius adds a full garden that doesn’t really exist to his stick-figure self’s house just because. By the time he’s done he’s feeling almost relaxed, and Devon doesn’t seem to care that Claudius took what could have been a very nice mural and turned it into a child’s finger painting.

“Come by any time,” Devon says, smiling, and he really can’t be real, can he, there must be something in those cookies that makes him so calm. Claudius just nods and says maybe, and on the way back he stops by Artemisia’s house and washes the dishes for her.

 

* * *

 

Three days later, someone raps at Claudius’ door with three solid strikes. He blinks, jumps off the couch and runs to open it, and there stands Emory, Brutus’ first Victor, tall and quarry-muscled and stone-faced and imposing, and she has Devon’s ear in one hand and Artemisia’s shoulder cupped firmly in the other, and what is going on?

“Hi?” Claudius asks, trying not to take an instinctive step back.

“Artemisia and Devon have something to say to you,” Emory says, the remnants of the eastern quarry twang in her voice even after fifteen years in the Village and the Capitol.

“There’s not actually any tradition,” Artemisia says, shifty-eyed and sheepish. “I was just messing with you. If it makes you feel any better, I only tease people if I like them, so I wouldn’t have bothered if I thought you were gonna be like Enobaria and Lyme.”

Emory gives her a look, then turns very purposefully to Devon. Devon coughs. “I was in on it,” he says. “Misha asked me to back her up if you got suspicious, but same deal. It’s just because we knew you could take it.”

Emory shakes them both, then lets go. “I’m sorry they had you going like that,” she says to Claudius, and okay, yes, this would be Brutus’ girl all right, all serious and solemn and obsessed with decency. Claudius almost wants to smash something just to make sure it isn’t rubbing off. “It’s all right, though, why don’t you and I go out back and enjoy the nice weather while these two make sure your house is nice and tidy for you.”

“You don’t have to —“

But then, surprisingly, Artemisia laughs and slings her arm around Claudius’ shoulders. “Hey, kid, you went on way longer than I expected you to, so I’m happy to give you a little positive payback. You could’ve told me to fuck off after the first week, but you kept going like a champ. You’ve got character.”

“Okay,” Claudius says, and wow he does not understand the Village at all. Luckily he has a whole lifetime to learn it. “Well, I really don’t like cleaning the bathroom very much, no matter how much Lyme says I should picture the mould as my enemies.”

Artemisia grins, ruffles his hair and pulls away. “Bathroom scrubbing it is,” she says. “When we’re done Devon will give you a foot rub if you want, because he has the hands of a god.”

“Er.” Claudius runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t — actually like being touched, so. We’ll just call that a freebie.”

“As you wish,” she says, sauntering into the house, and Devon grins and follows.

Emory sighs and shakes her head. “It’s like managing cats with those two,” she says, but her voice is warm and proud even under the disapproval, and maybe not everything Devon said about the hierarchy and protection and safety was total bullshit. She turns back to Claudius and jerks her head toward the door. “Come on, Brutus tells me you built a treehouse. Why don’t I help you make an extension?”

When Lyme stops by that afternoon, the four of them are out on the back porch with a barbecue Devon dragged over from his place and a pile of food brought over from Emory’s, grilling meat and vegetables and arguing over the best way to cook a steak.

“Well, well,” Lyme says, and she slips an arm around Claudius’ waist so he can rest his head against her shoulder. “Looks like you fit in just fine.”

“No, you Brutus-clone caveman, I don’t want my meat _bleeding_ in the centre, give it to me well done” Artemisia snaps, reaching for the meat flipper while Devon fends her off and screeches about the bourgeois. Emory rolls her eyes back at the porch, a faint smile on her face, and takes a serene sip of her beer.

“Yeah,” Claudius says, and Lyme runs her fingers through his hair. “I guess I do.”

 

 


End file.
